Tuesday, July 15, 2014

all the stars

All the stars have gone away, every wish is lost. The sky sheds its shifting skin, spilling wind and shadow. The whole world turns brittle blue and pavement gray, the dark yard rustles and wakes. Everything is dogs and traffic, hollow words and headlights. The last embers glow as the smoke gutters and all hope dies. Love lingers, a bitter remainder, bright reminder of the once you were.

The room shines low, the songs shuffle and low. So many summers lost to wander vacant lots and jittery streets. So many seasons wasted while the skin slips away. Sunlight still beating inside your reddened flesh, that dance of daylight in deep clear water now pictures in a book behind your eyes. Word after word, and nothing ventured. The blood stipples the page, the ink bruise black on every line.


I would pray if there was the least hint of smolder. I would cry if the tears were worth their salt. Ghosts gather and grumble, every loss arrive at once. Every failing takes wing to come home to roost. I am alone in the darkness of my own invention. I am alone in the hollow light of a single bulb. Nothing sings, nothing stays. I sit still in the ravening night, watching as the shadows swallow me whole.

skin and bones

The day is bright, the light relentless and starved of reflective flesh. So the day rises, so the sun spills, hungry dust and flesh beaded in sweat and heat. The crows vocalize in some other sky, while flies warm themselves on your every limb. The music tumbles beneath the surface, delving into the dark corners and sticky shadows of your restless mind. All the words, all the wings, still nothing is held aloft by this relentless tide. Each way, each wish, arrives already buried, all hope stolen or murdered before your eyes. Like you, the light is there to be lost.

The wings sweep the sky, the shadows stick and swell. The heat sinks into your flesh, and you steam and pool and glisten. Your face a painted mask of dust and sweat. All this effort for the ache in every bone. All this effort for this heart that blurts and sputters. You work at it, this aimless pantomime of sacrifice. You work hard to hold fast to all this empty.


Cry for all your waste and wander. Weep for the tireless pace of all this blood. Stay the night with your prayers and spells of rote convenience. Follow the vein to the troubled source. All these hopes for love and comfort movies playing in an abandoned theater. You jostle the crowds of skin and bones that there might be a path to follow. Your thoughts clotted with shards and rust, you wipe away the maps and prizes. Your mouth full of promises no-one cares if you keep, the day burns down around you.

Thursday, June 12, 2014

ideation

There is the day, there are the words, there are the systems and the senses. The vacant school field dripping with sprinklers, the mocking birds scolding the cat in the grapes. The feel and the phrasing and the world always so much the same, yet the sickness grows. Blue skies and fair weather, yet my mood is in the wind. The old call to violence over these fresh new failings, the urge towards self slaughter forever in the wings. My whole life an inability to reconcile my wants with reality. This dull relentless longing for a bullet to baptize the wall with my brains.

There is dust on my tongue, there are stains upon the smile I seldom find, there is all the sorrow and this rage. The tales I tell all leading nowhere but into the thickness of language, this seeping from all the wounds in the world. I can feel the press and lift of the atmosphere as the air sails and stumbles, I can hear the lilt and the hesitation of limb and leaf. Music plays beneath all this struggle and sway, my campaign the cracked voice and the closed throat. The song in my heart drowning in all this blood, the tears on my face trails in the dirt. My legacy only ache and confusion, my inheritance wreck and ruin.


The day is slow, the clock is plodding. My skin dissolves at the least provocation. I close my eyes and feel the press of steel. I close my eyes and I am in the sealed garage with the engine idling. I crave the abandon of bones cracking beneath this desolate fury, all this hollow prattle another balloon loosed in a room. The terror of this vivid, daily decomposition always a flicker behind my eyes. The sadness of my lack clinging cruelly to my heart. Each day feels like the day I need to end it, the promise I made to still my hand stuck like a splintered bone in my throat. The burden of this broken brain, the tension of this unbidden flesh, the tatters of my every least intention shredded before my eyes. I don't know how much longer I can hold on. My grail beyond my grasp, my life in scraps and shreds. Every day a blessing I want to end.

Saturday, June 7, 2014

some brand new now

The wind threads the lapse between sky and earth, kicking its heels up in the dust. Every day another two stitches, another one cut. Each day the bright reminder of so much left undone, the ruin that declaims your way. Sketch to sketch, skin to skin. The hollows gape before us, each deed drowning in the past, every word the ghost of ten thousand others. The stretch of credulity, the seamless transition from light to light, the dense text of deep abandon. One name, then another. The words just plod and plod.

Like it or not, the evidence suggests that there are other minds at work. They seethe through the bones and the brittle synapses, they leap the gaps and mark the paths and claim some road for the virtue of the spill. They build the towers and steal the treasure and foment all sorts of gods and ghosts in the cracks and the seams. They mistake the tangle for the tenor, and happenstance becomes destiny. They mistake their loss and their limitations for a mystery beyond their noisy meat, heaven proven by the reach of trees, the tumbling world the prize to spurn for a kingdom made of wishes and jokes. The world, for its part, takes no notice.


Now the dog hunts a horsefly, its transgressions answered with gnashing teeth and swift jaws. The sun stipples the long lean of the pine. One thing, and so another, then yet another. The stories just go and go. The porch-light on in the tumbling afternoon, the cigar butt smoldering above the gathering of ash, the clock on the wall always naming some brand new now. Life as a journey, life as a burden, life as a poem discovered. Everything said just so, everything treading water and spilling breath, the poetry another symptom of seeing. Ashes on my belly, smoke threading my every breath. The dust dances with the wind, every origin story an ending alluded. All the words written, orphaned on the page.

Saturday, April 26, 2014

the words won"t say

Everything goes up in smoke, everything's the weather. The clouds that gather, the sun that burns, the sky each day and night. I pace the streets and pound the pavement. I watch the traffic ebb and flow. The words will take it either way. The words know no want or way. Come rain, come shine, the foreword and the epilogue. The addendum and errata. The hopes that they bore for you dwindle into fears, the history of rage and blood and broken tomorrows. The words settle, indifferent and aloof. The promise dulls until there is nothing but the waiting for your grave.

So I watch the skies and the birds that run them. So I look to heaven and the stars that never look our way. The rain falls down, and I am resigned to it's blessing. The rain falls down, and I pretend that it's to meet me. The crows on high cackle on the wind, the world working according to their savvy plans. Wings spread as black as faith, as slick as blind ice, slipping along the lines of proof and wonder. The sky rushes down between trees and buildings, the street hissing beneath every turning wheel. I speak aloud, every word swallowed up my the storm.


The thunder comes and the rain is strung in chains off every eave, a hard march across the rattling rooftops and unsuspecting dirt. A sudden sheen, the shear of lightning, the tin roof rumble and ozone in the air. I smoke and think of probable ends, and stretch well passed the credible. The words long since left from meaning, just markers at the intersection, seats left on the plane. I spill my breath and raise my voice, oath or invocation lost beneath the rising din. It is gone at once, though I don't know what this is. A feeling left to wander these parts that the words won't say. The moment once wished for slowly leeched away into these knots and missteps. The world only roads and rain.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

top of the world

The sky is bright and the day is blue and warm. Sunlight stirs the skins of things, and the bees just hang from from every bloom. The dry throat of the earth, the dominance of dust, all parleyed past thought by every sense. black wings and evergreens, pine sap and blue feathers, everything finding its level in the end. All the cigar butts and glutted ashtrays, all the unearthed stones and the broken bricks speak to my shallow disarray. My heart sings just as deep and open as any grave.

The gray days ease in between storms and thirsty stones. Lightning spills down and thunder splits the air, storms that rode the restless ocean walking across field and hill. Green fills each bough and lot, an elucidation of insects and spiders seems to flow from the bewitched soil. The clouds brace the sky, making bets and promises as they veil the face of the shining sun. We ease between want and illness, between rhythm and appetite. We slow before every obstacle, we speed down every slippery slope. The path of rout and rapine somehow fleshed out in every feeble faith. The sky wanders, the earth wanders, while we think the world wants our pleadings.


There is rain waiting in the forecast, there are shadows sticking to every skin. My story is all love and squander, it is the wide wander from the distant primal seas unto these days of empty and of ache. The words well with typical tears, the litany goes dribbling down my beard, slobber slick and aged gray. All this blood and fury hobbling in shabby circles, boots caked with mud, books heavy with dust. I speak aloud the expected spells, love and hunger, death and wealth. The bent bones of this beaten man so keen to give up every ghost.  The shuffling gait of this stumble bum bearing the brunt of my daily blasphemies. This supplication spent for the weather when heaven is only stars and storms.

Monday, March 10, 2014

vernacular

We ride the tide of this ocean without sea or shore. We feel the brush of creation flying by, the throat only opened by the song, this press of breathless prayer unbound towards eternity. The scratch of the nub, the liquid shift of captured ink, until the click of fingers, unto this conspiracy of restless thumbs. The echo bears some slight enchantment of the life which it just so recently fled, the blush of that first reach, the ruffled feathers of this natal tongue. The choicest portions, the richest sops deluged at once by ancient appetites, the story all heady glut and starveling thoughts. The flocks that leave from sagging lines into ineffable flight, their shadows drawn dark and reluctant to the sky. The least intent a thousand fitful ripples.

The sun falls with its usual disregard, shadows slink and winds pace the rails. The sunlight climbing up the trees, the damp earth sodden with dusk. The lilt of song, the screech of tires and breeched traction light and silt through the senses vast transactions. That hint of a smile you always hear in her voice, that brightness of heart that her thought on eyes conveys, the depths of digression the flood of memories over these random skins. All the broken teeth and blown kisses buried far from the desert of my wind-worn ribs, the trails of secreted roots and lively flowers. Her own bones and breath the gorgeous foundry for this life renewed. All the wounds that can be carried, I will carry some more. The only oath that exists there in every breath.


I am a space between phrases. I am the trip of the tongue, not even a breath left to lose. The strange enchantment of dull technology leaving me to unwind in these long hallways behind your mind. Some cartoon haunted house complete with shifting wall and spinning bookcase, your mind a mystery machine to these slivers retained. Adrift in these rough constellations, the condensation of each sense to a few lithe strokes, the loosing of a resting ghost sealing your lungs and lips. You are there amid the masses, you reach and beckon entangled in my drift. You are here with-in the reach of speaking. You are here, with-in these shambled breathings, the cast of my blood on every shed word. Love as letters, a flag filled with wind.